the night squeezes moon juice into my dreams
and I lemon my way through thick syrupy words
going round and round above, in my head
like a dotto train
ding ding ding!!
(Luna-land here, everyone off!!)

fantasies of the weak
begging like potato chips in a bag to be crunched
at least once
in a real commercial
with a second hand banner and no pride

trouble was waiting in paradise
like paint in a pot
ready to be splashed over an Aston Martinís window

how we laughed at this scenario, oh, baby!
how many times
we giggled thinking God is away on business
and this time He is, He must be
and He must have left in charge
Brahmsí lullaby, her frail mind
and someoneís little finger

|

Home of Literature, Poetry and Culture. Write and enjoy articles, essays, prose, classic poetry and contests.